Clean Kitchen
Blood drips from a knife. Each drop stains the floor, disrupting the normally pseudo-clean kitchen. My friend is there. His breathing steadies, with his focus on me. My phone is hard to hold on to, making it difficult to dial. The assumption of being able to take him dissolves in every passing moment. “Please! Help me!” Ariel cries from the bathroom. She’s just as scared as I am. Death watches both down his girlfriend and I. “Help me.” Roger, my roommate pleads, though his voice is flat. It’s almost like someone speaks for him. “We’ll never talk about this again.” Everything links together. Past conversations, jokes, mannerisms, fights; the memories flip through my mind, looking for something that makes sense, a pattern that explains what’s happening right now. “I won’t help you.” The condition of his girlfriend thrusts to the forefront of my mind, her trying to hold everything in place. “I’m calling the police.” I wish it didn’t sound like I’m